ISSUE THREE
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
Taking photographs of my hometown has given me a chance to reflect on people whom I have not valued.
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Vistas from the American Southwest, catching the light and design in all its strangeness and beauty.
And then he feels that familiar sensation of drifting—when his body untethers from the material world and he soon dissolves into a fine, floating mist that evaporates into the atmosphere.
Darkness always follows.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
What possible use is this lengthy childhood? Surely there would be a selective advantage in maturing earlier, so children are less vulnerable to predation and mothers are freed up to have more children?
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.